The town marshal had always been reticent about his origins, but Conn
guessed it was Hathor. Brangwyn's heavy-muscled body, and his ease and
grace in handling it, marked him as a man of a high-gravity planet.
Besides, Hathor had a permanent cloud-envelope, and Tom Brangwyn's skin
had turned boiled-lobster red under the dim orange sunlight of Alpha
Gartner.

Old Klem Zareff never hesitated to tell anybody where he came from--he
was from Ashmodai, one of the System States planets, and he had
commanded a division that had been blasted down to about regimental
strength, in the Alliance army.

"Hello, boy," he croaked, extending a trembling hand. "Glad you're home.
We all missed you."

"We sure did, Conn," the town marshal agreed, clasping Conn's hand as
soon as the old man had released it. "Find out anything definite?"

Kurt Fawzi looked at his watch. "Conn, we've planned a little
celebration for you. We only had since day before yesterday, when the
spaceship came into radio range, but we're having a dinner party for you
at Senta's this evening."

"You couldn't have done anything I'd have liked better, Mr. Fawzi. I'd
have to have a meal at Senta's before really feeling that I'd come
home."

"Well, here's what I have in mind. It'll be three hours till dinner's
ready. Suppose we all go up to my office in the meantime. It'll give the
ladies a chance to go home and fix up for the party, and we can have a